


To England, Where My Heart Lies

by Tammany



Series: Kiss You When You Start Your Day [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Love, M/M, Oral Sex, Sugar for Sugar, accidental facial
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-04-24 03:29:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14347056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: Ok, this one is "by request." Enough of you wanted to see the full pattern play out that I decided to do so before I disappear back into too-much-work mode.I will try to answer the comments from the past two stories and from other stories recently. I can't promise--I really am up to my arse in alligators. But I love your comments and I do try to reciprocate. I am so very sorry that sometimes it turns into a choice between answering comments and writing new installments. This time the installment won.Thank you all.  I hope you enjoy this...





	To England, Where My Heart Lies

“Home, sir.”

The chauffeured Jag had pulled up alongside Mycroft Holmes’ building on Pall Mall, opposite the Diogenes Club. The driver’s voice, tinny and faint, came over the speaker from the front seat, and Greg, fighting back chuckles, tapped the response button.

“Ta. Thanks, Jerry. Sorry to keep you up late. Sometime you’ve got to let me buy you a pint.”

The speaker sparked again. “Boss’ll have my hide if you do, DCI Lestrade. But I’ll take the good wishes. Sleep well, sir.” The door lock on the back passenger side popped, letting Greg out. Moments later the car pulled away, and Greg shook his head, still unable to believe he was where he was, preparing to “go home” to the man he was going home to. He slipped his very new, very unnerving security card from his wallet, where it rested beside his warrant card, and let himself into the lobby.

“Hello, DCI Lestrade! Welcome home!” The girl on reception for the night smiled at him and waved. “Mr. Holmes left a message that your dinner was in the refrigerator and that it would reheat well in the microwave, but not in the oven or in a pan on the cooktop. Two minutes on reheat, no more.”

“Yes, Fern.” He smiled back at her, gave his own little wave, and used the ID card again, this time to open the lift—and then, a second time, to clear passage to the fifth floor penthouse of the old Georgian building—a former hotel converted to a very small number of very high-priced flats. Then, one last time, he greeted Malak, the MI6 guard mounting security in the entry off the lift, passed his magic card through one last lock-scan, and went into the dark foyer of the suite.

The whole time he managed not to laugh. Not a giggle. Not a snigger. Not a guffaw, much though he was tempted. After all, it was him—Greg Lestrade—getting out of chauffeured luxury cars, greeting minions by name, waving the precious security ID around, showing up going on midnight at Mycroft Holmes’ very, very private, very high-security, very elite home. The very thought was enough to make Greg want to hoot his amusement.

Karma—yeah. Ok. The gods absolutely must be crazy. No other explanation.

He slipped quietly out of his overcoat, hanging it on the coatrack near the door, noting without surprise that Mycroft’s was there already. He crept into the kitchen, spotting Mycroft’s umbrella and briefcase on the floor against the wall on the way in. He opened the refrigerator, noting that, unlike his first time here, there was actual food in rational amounts: a jug of his favorite juice, several boxes of leftover take-away he and Mycroft had ordered earlier in the week, a large box of eggs Mycroft kept in the cold because he still did not believe they’d be eaten before they went bad in the bowl on the counter. Greg wasn’t sure if that was a conviction resulting from too many years alone, not always eating at home, or if it was some muddle of science and Americanized expectations.

He fully intended to teach Mycroft to order fresh farm eggs, keep them in a bowl on the counter, and eat them regularly enough that they stayed fresh. No way should the “British Government” eat like a nervous American suburban eating eggs with the protective layer washed off, that then needed refrigeration and even semi-pasteurization to stay fresh.

He found the plate of poached fish and steamed vegetables in the fridge. He declined to follow Mycroft’s microwave instructions, instead making himself a quick omelet, stuffing it with flaked fish, veg, and a knob of butter.

He ate at Mycroft’s kitchen table—barely big enough for one, in his opinion, though Mycroft insisted it seated two quite appropriately.

He listened to the flat.  The hum of London just outside; the purr of the fridge. No sound of Mycroft, but that wasn’t a surprise. The man could snore, and did, but not so constantly as to be a reliable trace.

So here he was, Greg thought. Here he was.

Home late—late to another man’s flat, because in some unexpected way in a matter of under two weeks it had become home. He didn’t worry anymore when a case kept him late—he called Jerry, or whoever else was on shift, and asked for the Jag to come pick him up. He waved at Fern and chatted with Malak or Abe or Nigel. He let himself in…and if the hour was late he knew not to wake Mycroft to apologize, because Mycroft did not wake up gently in his first hours of sleep. He knew if he woke Mycroft up anyway, Mycroft would assume it was for a reason, and ask questions and listen to answers and worry until he was sure Lestrade was all right.

He knew Mycroft would not make toxic, poisonous comments in the morning, the way Lee had when they were married and he came home late. Instead he’d ask what the case was about, and respond with similar information about his own day—to the extent he was allowed by the National Secrets Act. He’d make brilliant coffee, even though he himself preferred tea.

Home. What a world, what a world! Mycroft’ Holmes’ flat was Greg’s home…

He wondered what they were going to do about that.

He finished his dinner, cleaned up the plates and pans, went to the master bath and stripped down. He hung his suit out to be taken to the cleaners’, dropped his shirt, vest, and briefs into the hamper, and took a luxurious shower, shaving and scrubbing his teeth as he did so on the off-chance Mycroft would wake up sweet, rather than sleeping through or growling his unwillingness to leave hibernation. He drew on a plush cotton robe, toweled his hair, and crept into the bedroom.

He frowned.

Mike had been here. He could see that easily—the big, simple bed tossed about, sheets rumpled, pillows displaced. But his lover wasn’t there.

He didn’t really need to think about it. He turned, instead, and padded bare-foot down the dark corridor to Mycroft’s home office.  He tapped his nails lightly on the door. Getting no response he tested the doorknob, and found it unlocked. He eased it open and crept in.

The room was unlit, except for the glow of the laptop screen. Mycroft—

Greg’s heart slammed, once, hard, and he shot forward, terrified by the huddle of head and shoulders resting on the desk. He was trained, though—a steady man—and by the time he’d reached Mycroft’s side he’d noticed breath rising and falling easily, and the miniscule motions of a man asleep at his desk. Still, he came close and leaned over, to reassure himself.

Mycroft’s hair fell, his one remaining curl flopped down over his forehead. He breathed easily, but was still drooling slightly—not a good look on him, Greg thought with an affectionate smile. His eyes moved in REM sleep. He was dressed in his usual bed clothes—drawstring cotton trousers, a pull-over t-shirt. He smelled of his favorite soap, toothpaste, and aftershave. His arms were folded under his head, his shoulders hunched, one higher than the other as his body twisted with the turn of his head.

Greg cupped the point of the higher shoulder, and shook very lightly.

“Wakey-wakey, sunshine. Time to go to bed.”

Mycroft gave a predictable, perfectly in-character snarl…something about reporting Greg to the Inland Revenue.

“Shhh-shhh. You don’ wanna do that, love. I’m a lot less fun in prison, yeah? Come on. Bedtime.”

He grumbled again, then his eyelids fluttered, and he managed to focus. “Greg?”

“Yeah. Home now.”

“Your dinner’s in the refrigerator. You can reheat it in—“

“Shhh. Fern told me already.”

“Fern?”

“Your reception-minion for the night. She passed your message. I ate already. Showered. Ready for bed. Now you. What happened—an emergency at work?”

Mycroft stretched and sat up, easing aching muscles while moaning sullenly. “No. Couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d get something done here—then…” He shrugged. “I believe the term is ‘faceplant.’”

“Sure is,” Greg said, stepping back so his lover could rise. “Next time it happens, should I wake you up or leave you here? What’s better?”

“A difficult question,” Mycroft said. “It’s not a commonplace. Or hasn’t been previously.” He ran his fingers through his thinning hair, and yawned mightily. “Very peculiar.”

“Mmm?” Lestrade followed the other man out of the office, waiting while he locked the door securely before returning down the dark hall to the master bedroom. “And? Was anything wrong tonight?”

Mycroft gave a near-silent little huff, then said with evident discomfort. “Only that you were home late.”

Greg said nothing. Years of experience with Lee suggested that this was where accusations would be made and resentments and loneliness aired. And, yet—

“Sorry,” he said as they both entered the bedroom. “Cop’s life, I’m afraid.”

Mycroft, still bleary from sleep, looked across the bed at him, clearly a bit surprised. “Of course. And you’d called to let me know. Not a problem, Inspec…Greg.” He grimaced. “I will learn. I promise. Even I can see that being addressed by your title is singularly un-lover-ly.”

“Well—unless you’ve got a few fantasies you’d like to play out.” Greg chuckled. “I do have handcuffs.”

Mike grinned. “And I, like Sherlock, know how to remove them. Though—we may want to explore a few possibilities some other time. But seriously, it was quite stupid. I just couldn’t sleep. Not your fault. I appear to be acclimatizing to your presence rather intensely, for which I can only apologize.” There was a note of remorse in his voice, and he looked away. “Let me know if I’m too…” He paused, looking for a term he was willing to voice, then said with pure distaste, “Let me know if I’m too clingy.”

Lestrade frowned, trying to follow the odd emotional currents eddying between them—and gave up. It was late. He was tired. Mike was tired.

“No worries." He slipped out of his robe, dropping it over the foot of the bed, and eased under the sheets.

Mycroft’s sheets were always chill and crisp—ironed and starched linen changed daily, in a flat he kept at a low temperature. He thought Greg insane to sleep naked, and had even offered to change his own habits if Greg really wanted to continue coming to bed in his skin. “I am told there are flannel sheets, for those who like a warmer option,” he’d said over bagels and cream cheese one morning. But Greg found the sharp chill followed by the slow, comforting rise in temperature as his body warmed the sheets a strange luxury, reminding him of getting into bed in the little, under-heated flat he’d lived in as a very young child, when his parents had still lived in the old Cockney row-houses that had survived WWII. Later they’d moved to better quarters in the new Council housing, with central heat. But as a child he’d known the ritual of cold-to-warm, and found it both sensual and soothing.

Mike crawled into bed beside him and lay, for all the world like a vampire in a crypt, hands crossed over his chest, head neat on his pillow. Greg smiled. The man always started there, until invited to touch—to come closer.

‘C’mere, you,” he whispered, and rolled toward his lover. “Sleep like that and you’ll scare me you’re dead again.”

Shy, Mycroft unfolded himself and rolled toward Lestrade. “Again?” he asked, letting Lestrade pillow his head on Mycroft’s shoulder and wrap his arms around Mycroft’s thin chest.

“Mmmm. Thought for a half a mo’ you were dead, there at your desk.” Greg chuckled, already feeling sleep approach. “Scared me. Like you better alive, thanks ever so.” He squeezed his arms tight enough to force a small, amused grunt out of his partner.

He was almost asleep when, minutes later, Mycroft said, in a near whisper, “You were afraid? For me?”

“Well, d’oh.” His breathing had slowed and deepened already. He was barely awake at all. He almost didn’t notice the shiver run through Mycroft, or Mycroft’s arms spasm, tightening around his shoulders. He barely noticed the other man’s face resting on the crown of his head. It was only when something damp seemed to trickle through his already-dry hair that he forced himself to focus, hearing breath no longer steady, sensing sobs unvoiced—marked only by the stuttering rise and fall of Mycroft’s chest.

He rose into wakefulness slowly, slowly, slowly. “Mike?”

“Shhhh. Sleep….”

“Mike, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing—I assure you.” There was truth in his voice, along with tears. “Just…sentiment. Sleep, Greg.”

Greg lay in Mycroft’s arms, in Mycroft’s bed, in Mycroft’s room, in Mycroft’s flat—lay at home, in the heart of home. His let his fingers trail up and down Mycroft’s back, feeling the shiver and strain as Mycroft tried to gather his emotions, calm them. He risked a kiss, placed in the deep thumbprint where collarbone and throat met, in the v of the tendons. “Prefer you alive,” he said, softly, marking the shudder that marked his words.

Lips found his skull, kissed silver hair. “Likewise. You are valued.” The words were awkward, unpracticed. “I missed you tonight.” Those words were unpracticed, too. “You don’t have to come home. I understand entirely why you were late, and I would even understand if—I’ve had you over here rather often lately. We can change that, if you prefer. Spend the night at yours. Sleep over less often. But—I am glad you came home. I…missed you.” Mycroft arched into Lestrade’s stroking palms.

A tickle against Greg’s belly announced that Mycroft’s response was not entirely a matter of sentiment. Greg let his hand find his lover’s cock tenting his cotton pajama bottoms. “Interested?”

Mycroft gave a mocking snort. “I appear to have only one answer, where you are concerned. Always. Always interested. What can I do for you?”

Greg laughed softly. “You already ‘do for me’ quite enough. My turn, I think.” He inched down, pushing back the blankets so he wouldn’t suffocate, then slipping the bow of the pajama drawstring. He rolled the cotton fabric down, freeing Mycroft’s rising cock. He nuzzled, then, taking in arousal and soap and water, sensing chamois-soft skin just barely brushing his lips, working his fingers into the curls at the base of Mycroft’s pecker. Above he heard his lover murmur, uncertain, something about what he could do to help.

“Shut up and enjoy yourself,” Greg said, laughing to himself. “You feed me, you fuss over me, you take care of me. Maybe it’s time I paid back a bit, yeah?”

To his dismay, Mike twitched, gave a hurt gasp, and jerked away, cock already beginning to wilt.

Greg propped himself on one elbow, looking up Mike’s body, then grabbing the other man’s shoulder before he could turn away. “Mike, what is it?”

“You don’t need to ‘pay me back’ for anything. I do not want…payback.” Mycroft pulled, and Greg had to tighten his grip, knowing he would leave bruises if Mycroft fought much harder.

“Whoa….Mike. It’s a figure of speech.” He rolled up, coming to sit cross-legged among the sheets and blankets, looking down at his lover, now.

“This is not a transaction,” Mycroft said, and turned away, his back to Greg, arms wrapped tight around his own body.

Greg consider him—his shadowed form, visible only in ambient light from the windows of the room. “Sunshine—Look. I’m a cop. You’re—whatever. Analyst? Mind-reader? Deductive whiz-kid to Royalty? Whatever. We both know all relationships are a bit transaction, at some level. Some of the deal is provided by those chemicals Sherlock despises so much. Some are built into the social norms. But I dare you to find anyone, in any relationship, who doesn’t get along a bit better with a bit of sugar returned for sugar given. I dare you. But—that’s not all it is. And not all sugar is tit-for-tat. I just—you’ve been good to me. You’ve made me happy. Is it so wrong to want to return it?” He let his hand graze up and down Mycroft’s flank, a calming, slow rhythm.

Mycroft relaxed—a little. Not as much as Greg would have liked. “It’s different,” he said.

“How?”

“I am not ‘being nice to you.’ I’m…” He faltered, then said, “I told you. I’m a bit infatuated. It’s only normal that I want to take care of you, give you the best, see you’re happy, know you’re comfortable and secure. Chemicals do that sort of thing,” he added, with faint bitterness. “This is the first time I’ve been able to give in to my impulses…for which I am most profoundly grateful. That is ‘sugar’ enough, and for that sugar I profoundly thank you. No further payment is required. Just tell me if I’m too clingy. You don’t need to do anything more yourself to keep the equation in balance.”

Greg blinked, so stunned his hand paused in mid-stroke. “What the fuck?”

Mycroft said nothing.

“Mike—you say that like I’m doing you some kind of favor. Like—like the time we spend together, like everything—like it’s all some kind of mercy fuck, and I don’t owe you anything, no matter how good it gets or how great things are or…” He stopped, then said with his own fierce bitterness, “You damned well better not be doing all this because you think you owe me. Like I’m some kind of rent-boy who needs the fancy car and the nice flat and the dinners out and the whole damned thing.” He was just barely holding back fury, trying to work through what was happening before he—or Mycroft—managed to bugger up a perfectly good thing between them. “Mike, what do you think we’re doing?”

Mycroft was silent, too still, frozen—clearly thinking hard and fast, as Greg himself was. “I said something wrong, didn’t I?”

“Maybe. Depends on if you meant what it sounded like. Mike, I’m here because I like you. And because I really like what we’ve been doing together. I like spending time with you. The fancy car, the great food, the linen sheets, the minions—they’re kind of fun set dressing. They weird me out a bit. But the reason I am here is because I really am less lonely here with you, doing what we do, enjoying what we enjoy. I…” he faltered. “I may even be happy, all right? I may—I may even love you. I just—it’s early to say so. It’s too soon to be sure. I still can’t make promises. But I’m not here because it’s the only choice out there, or because you’re ‘paying’ a high enough price to make it worth my while. I’m here because I like it.”

Mycroft lay still—very still. “Really?” His voice was small, insecure, shaking with feeling.

“D’oh. Mike—you’ve known me fifteen years. You tell me, would I stay if it weren’t true?”

“You stayed with Lee. You stay with Sherlock. You stay—it’s who you are.”

“Fuck.” That hurt—like a kick in the stomach. Greg fought back defensive responses—counter-accusations, reproach, insults. “Fuck me. Ouch. Gimme a moment. I’ve got to think about that one.”

There was a rustle as Mycroft nodded. “Yes. Very well. Perhaps one deduction too far?”

“More like ‘a bit not-good.’ True. But—yeah. Ok. I can see why you might think I wouldn’t tell you if I weren’t really happy. Why I might not take care of myself or put myself first. But—takes one to know one, sunshine. I’m not stupid. You’ve been spoiling me rotten the past two weeks. Is it because you want to, or because you think you have to?”

Mycroft covered his face with his hands. His voice, hushed, murmured, “Both. God help me, both. I want you to be happy. I’m infatuated, and I want you to be happy. Even factoring out the infatuation—you are a valued friend and companion, and I want so much for you to be content and secure. But you are right. I am also afraid that if I do not make you happy—make you happy all the time—you will come to resent me, as you do Lee and Sherlock.”

“Damn, sunshine. You’re not leaving me with much unbruised skin tonight. That one’s—yeah. Ouch.”

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft said, forlorn. “I can’t…change it.”

“No. Don’t. Sorry’s no good tonight. Look—we knew the job was dangerous when we took it—we both took risks going in. Is it fair enough to say that so far I’m happy with you, but a bit worried you’re working too hard at this, and, maybe, that you’re happy with me, but worried if I have to work I’ll stop caring about you?”

Mycroft considered. Greg could practically feel his brain overheating, the difficult, emotional puzzles pushing him to near his limits. At last he said. “Yes. I believe those are true statements.”

“Can you accept that if you don’t let me ‘pay back with sugar,’ I feel like it’s not a real relationship? That I do it because I want to make you happy, too?”

Mycroft considered. “I can accept it as a working hypothesis,” he said at last, humor finally flickering to life in his voice. “Not easily. Not with any security. But—enough to suggest you prove your thesis.”

Greg laughed, at last—the big, belling laugh he’d been tempted to ever since he fell into the jam-pot pleasure of life with Mycroft Holmes. “Good enough, sunshine. Now—bare-bottom and lean back. I have a blow-job to give my favorite minor official.”

It was a slow, gentle blow-job, for some time. Greg lipped the velvety plush skin of Mycroft’s foreskin, licked up the base of his cock, from curls to the connective skin of the frenulum that anchored the foreskin. He explored, pushing back skin, tonguing the slit of the revealed mushroom knob. He stroked his lover’s perineum, tickled his curls, sighed and muttered approval as Mycroft’s fingers gripped firm over his skull, tugging lightly at too-short hair, then finding the longer locks at the top of his head and gripping firm. He listened to Mike murmur pleasure—and encouraged him, stopping long enough to praise the moans, beg to be told if it was good, if it was nice…

Mycroft, encouraged, was louder, though obviously insecure and unsure of himself in that role. But his body was coming alive with pleasure—hips, belly, balls, everything announcing in its own way his interest. He was hot, and the sweat began to build, slick under Greg’s fingers. Then Greg pushed, intensifying his touch, licking, sucking, dropping down until Mike’s cock sank deep—as far back as he could bring himself to go before he lost control of his gag reflex. He knew he was managing enough to give Mycroft some joy of the process. The other man’s moans and breathing shifted to match the swallowing muscles that gripped him tight and the tongue stroking firmly up the bottom of his shaft.

“Come for me, lover…” He heard Mycroft whine out arousal, and stopped, saying it again, as his hands made up for what his tongue wasn’t free to do. “Come for me, Mike. Show me you like a bit of sugar…” He dropped his head again. Sucked. Lapped. Rose up and said, “Give it to me—show me. No hiding.”

He lowered his head one last time, hoping the pure intensity of it wasn’t delaying orgasm, as his jaw was beginning to ache. Just as his lips brushed Mike’s foreskin the other man gave a deep wail. The head of his cock knocked frantically at Greg’s mouth and chin—then he let go in spurting jets, the creamy spunk painting Greg’s face.

Greg gagged slightly, but hung on, touching, stroking, trying to get a lick in when he could, as Mycroft’s hips juddered and snapped, banging his cock over and over again on chin and nose and lips, moving too fast to reclaim in a hot mouth. At last Mycroft dropped with one last groan. He lay for a second, then jerked up, face horrified.

“Oh, my God. Greg, I’m sorry… Please, let me…” he rocketed out of the bed, darting for the bathroom, apologies trailing behind him like the wake of a motorboat. “Sorry, sorry, sorry, I—“

Greg laughed, flopping backward in the bed. He laughed too hard to say anything. His lover came rushing back, a hot, wet flannel in his hand, and began to clean Greg’s face, not stopping until Greg stilled both hands by gripping them tight in his own.

“Settle, sunshine. Settle down. It’s all right.”

“But I…” Mycroft blushed beet red. “In your face,” he added, eyes sadder than a basset hound’s.

“Knew the job was dangerous when I took it,” Greg said again, smiling. He tugged the flannel out of Mycroft’s fingers and wiped his own face. “So—you gave me a ‘facial.’ Not what you planned. Not what I planned—but one of the obvious risks. Not sure I like it. Do know it’s not a major problem right now. If you think you liked doing it, and need me to let you or you won’t get off, well—we can talk. But I’m fine.” He took time to clean Mycroft’s cock and groin, too, then tossed the flannel across the room, hoping it made it onto the tile floor of the bathroom. Then he swept Mycroft close. “It was fine. I’d ask if you liked my sugar—but it’s pretty sure you did, and poured out some cream to go with it.”

Mycroft snorted. “That is a lewd and obscene pun.”

“Yes. Yes it is. Here—let’s sort out the sheets and pillows and get comfy, yeah?”

Mycroft sighed—but it wasn’t an unhappy sigh at all. “Very well. You are a very bossy man.”

“I run an investigation team, sweetheart. AND I keep Sherlock and John in line. What do you expect, eh? Bossy is a survival trait.”

“That it is.” Mycroft pulled the sheet and blankets up over Greg, then eased in under them himself, resting his head on Greg’s shoulder.

They breathed easily together, Greg’s arm around Mycroft’s narrow shoulders, Mycroft’s hand stroking Greg’s stomach softly. After a time, Mycroft said, “You took care of me.”

“I’m good at that.”

“Yes. But—it’s not an obligation.”

“Yeah—it is. Just like you take care of me, sunshine. We take care of each other. That’s what it’s all about. Sugar on top of sugar, world without end, amen.” He was slipping out of awareness, at last. “Can you have Andy-pants call me in late tomorrow?” he asked, muzzily.

“I can have her get us the day off,” Mycroft responded. It had to be some good being the “British Government” after all.

“Abuse of privilege,” Greg murmured. “Just a bit of a lie-in, love. That and waking up next to you is enough…” And then he was asleep—home. At home with Mycroft Holmes.

Mycroft, not yet fully unaware, let that reality wrap around him. It was not mere infatuation on his part. His lover chose him…and in choosing, had made Mycroft’s house and heart his home.

He was chosen…

“Sugar for sugar,” he thought, and thinking it, fell asleep.

 

 

 


End file.
